We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  “Then what happened?” Now I’m really confused.

  “Yesterday my mom told Nonna that she and my father have been talking and that they want to try it again.”

  “Try what?” I ask, feeling like my brain is wearing a sweater.

  “Try living together again. Reconciling.” She looks at me. “My mom told me he’s changed.” Fig rolls her eyes. “She’s told me that before.”

  She holds up her right arm, and I can see a thin, pink line running from her wrist to just under her elbow. It’s the first time I’ve seen it, as Fig usually keeps her arms covered with long sleeves or with her self-made Sharpie tattoos. “Last time he came home, he did this. Broke my arm in two places.”

  “Then why is he . . .” I don’t know how to finish.

  “Still alive?” Fig asks, smiling grimly.

  “I was thinking more like not in jail,” I say.

  “My mom told the police it was an accident,” Fig says in a flat tone. I widen my eyes, making her nod. “Exactly.” Fig takes a deep breath. “I told my mom if Frank comes home, I’m gone.”

  “What does your family think?”

  “My family’s never met Frank. Mom met him when she moved to Vegas.” Fig smiles at the look on my face. “Short version. Mom took off when she was eighteen. Lied about her age. Worked as a cocktail waitress in some seedy casino. Met Frank. Had me. She says he was different when I was little.” Fig raises her brows. “I can’t remember Frank ever being different. The only Frank I know is drunk and violent.”

  “Does he ever try to talk to you?” I ask.

  Fig laughs. “No way. One time he tried, and I just started screeching into the phone.”

  “Screeching?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Fig says. “You know, like a barn owl?”

  She makes a hideous, high-piercing noise that causes me to jump. Joey looks into the kitchen and then backs out again, shaking his head.

  “Let’s just say he doesn’t try to call me anymore. But he does write all the time. Usually a bunch of crap about how sorry he is and how he’s changed.” Fig shakes her head. “Changed. Yeah, right.”

  I think of the folded piece of paper she had hidden in her pocket and wonder if that was one of Frank’s letters.

  “When did you move here?” I ask.

  “Last year,” she says. I’m surprised by this. “I thought when we moved, we left Frank behind.” Fig frowns. “Guess I was wrong.”

  “But Cooper and Sebastian and Sarah seem like they’ve known you forever.” I think of how close all four of them seem to be.

  “We all met in this group over at the rec center.” She pauses. “Nonna made me go. She thought it would help if I talked about everything.” Fig sighs. “She was right. As usual.”

  She starts to tell me more, and then checks herself. “I can’t tell you. I mean, I can tell you about me, but I can’t tell you about them.” I nod, feeling more outside of everything than ever.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  Fig shrugs. “My mom promised she wouldn’t do anything for the time being, whatever that means. But I think she’s sort of freaked out that now the whole family knows.” She fidgets with the towel that is still in her hand. “I’m hopeful. I mean, Nonna already told me that no matter what, I have a place with her.”

  “Hopeful is good,” I say.

  Fig takes a deep breath. “So, that’s what’s going on with me,” she says, making a face. “If you’re going to make a break for it, this is your chance.”

  I shake my head. What Fig is going through matches what I was starting to believe. Deep down, everyone has something ugly or dark or painful. Maybe all we need to do is talk about all of it.

  “Okay,” she says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She wipes her face one more time before tossing the towel at the laundry bag. “And you thought I was all normal,” she says.

  “I didn’t think you were that normal,” I say, smiling. She smiles back. I try to keep the mood light and tell her about the whoopie pies while she helps me slice up the remaining strawberries.

  “Wow, Mia,” Fig says. “That’s huge. Nonna doesn’t let anyone mess with the menu. I’ve gotta try one.”

  She hurries out front. I hear some raised voices, then she slams back into the kitchen with a whoopie pie cradled in her hands. “Last one!” she says.

  Joey follows her in, claiming he had dibs, but he’s too late. Fig’s already taken a bite.

  “Yum,” she says. She breaks off the untouched half and hands it to Joey, who eats it in two bites. He offers her a fist bump and heads back to the front. Fig finishes her whoopie pie while I add the sugar to the berries and put the pot on the stovetop. We take turns stirring the mixture to make sure it doesn’t burn.

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” Fig says. She looks hard at me. “We’re going to have that talk.” And I wonder what that talk will be—my family, my secrets, my missing memories, Cooper?

  I don’t say anything. I just nod and keep stirring, watching the strawberry mixture go around and around.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I hand Fig the spoon, then I hold my phone up. Cooper.

  I show it to Fig, who grins. “See?” she says. “Smitten.”

  I read the text he sent.

  Meet me when you’re free. Come alone.

  I can’t figure out whether my stomach feels funny because of the text or because of what Fig told me or because I feel like a fraud. Fig is standing there grinning at me, asking if I want to run out the back. If I actually did tell her about me, I’m pretty sure she would be the one to take off. The longer I’m here, and the more everyone tells me and trusts me, the falser I feel. Some part of me really does wish I could take off. But the selfish part of me, maybe the hopeful part of me, wants to stay.

  Besides . . . where would I go?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fig pushes me out the door about half an hour after Cooper texts. She tells me that love trumps strawberry jam every time. I practically skip all the way over to Simon’s place. The watermelons at the corner store are gone, replaced by flats of blueberries. I pause in front of There, listening to the music and the whine of a saw blade filtering out into the street. Cooper and my dad have the same taste in music—blues and reggae swirled together with some old jazz. Blueberries and Miles Davis are making me homesick, but in a good way. A reminder that not everything is gone.

  It’s Simon’s laughter that finally draws me inside. He walks past me as I enter, muttering about difficult creative types. His mouth tilts in a half frown. “Maybe you can light a fire under that boyfriend of yours.” He smiles slightly, letting me know he’s just being grumpy. He disappears into the next room, and I hear the saw blade start up again.

  Cooper is sorting tiles when I walk into the main room. “Hey,” he says when he sees me. As he walks my way, I can’t stop looking at his eyes. Sunlight on Clover maybe, or Greensleeves.

  “I want to show you something,” Cooper says.

  He leads me to a white line chalked on the floor about fifteen feet from the mural. We stand and look at the wall for a long moment. The giant maple tree bisecting the mural looks like it’s actually growing up from the wooden floor and supporting the tin ceiling. Dozens of tiles in different shades of brown hint at bark and shadows, giving it life.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” Cooper says. My heart skips when he says this. Cooper has been thinking a lot about me! “I think you should do the ocean.” He points to the right side of the mural where the rocks fall off into the water.

  My heart slows down. He was thinking of you as an artist, the other Mia says. I tell her to be quiet and take the brush Cooper hands me. He tells me the plan is to mount the laminate samples where we want them, and then Simon is going to come in with his sprayer and cover the whole thing with a coating of plastic.

  “Make sure they’re where you want them,” Simon yells from the other room. “Once I spray them, they’re stuck forever.”

>   Cooper looks over at me. “Or at least until this place goes under and someone else takes it over.”

  “I heard that!” Simon yells, making Cooper laugh.

  “What kind of place is this?” I ask. The name, There, tells me nothing.

  Cooper smiles at me. “Simon owns another place uptown. It’s called Here.”

  “Here and There,” I say. “Clever.”

  “Thank you!” Simon calls, and then I hear something fall to the floor followed by a lot of cursing. “I’m okay!” Simon says, but there’s more cursing.

  “Anyway,” I say, taking a box of blue samples from Cooper, “what is this place?”

  Cooper studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. “I want it to be a surprise,” he says.

  “Couldn’t I just look up Here online or even go there and see?”

  “Well, you could. But Here and There aren’t the same.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I get that.”

  “Also,” Cooper says, as if making a bigger point, “it’s a surprise.”

  When I’m with Cooper, I can almost forget everything, but then something always reminds me. Occasionally it’s a little thing. A laugh or a song or sometimes just a word. I can hear Rachel’s voice in my head. It’s a surprise, Mia-bird. She told me to close my eyes when she put the locket around my neck. I can feel the weight of it against my chest. Something in my face must change, because Cooper stops smiling.

  “You don’t like surprises,” he says.

  I take a deep breath. “Is it a good surprise?”

  “It is.” He picks up a box of brown tiles and carries it to the other end of the mural. “Trust me.”

  I want to tell him I’m trying to, but I just bend and start sorting through the box of blues, looking for the perfect ones to match the picture in my head. Cadet Blue, Washed Denim, Aquamarine, Seaside Holiday, Blue Like Jazz.

  Hours go by, and it still looks like we’ve done nothing. Simon tells us as much.

  “We’re still in the planning stage,” Cooper says.

  “Well, get to the doing stage,” Simon says, pointing his hammer at us. I look at the floor, at all the tiles I’ve sorted. It’s tricky finding the right blue. I don’t know how anyone chooses what color to use in their kitchen. There are at least eleven different shades of aquamarine and another four of azure.

  “You’d think they’d have some sort of standard,” I grumble, putting a sample of Navy in with the ones that are called Midnight, because to me they look like the same shade. Cooper is smiling at me. “What?” I ask.

  “You’re funny,” he says.

  I glare at him. “How am I funny?”

  This makes him laugh. “You’re just so grouchy.”

  I sit back on my heels and look at him. “Is it too much to ask”—I hold up a laminate sample—“for Standard Hardware and”—I hold up another sample—“Industrial Enterprises to agree on one shade and call it periwinkle?” I drop the two samples. “So far I’ve found at least five different samples with five different names that all look like the exact same color.”

  Cooper is nodding, trying to make his face match my consternation, but he’s not succeeding.

  “I’m serious,” I say.

  Cooper holds up his palm. “I know,” he says. My phone vibrates and I take it out.

  “Hello?” I say without checking who it is.

  “Mia?” It’s Veronica. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Why?” I check the screen on my phone and wince. Almost seven thirty. “I’m sorry,” I say, standing up. “I lost track of time and—”

  “When can I expect you?” she interrupts.

  I glance over at Cooper, who is busy sorting browns and grays for the rocks. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I start to say goodbye, but then I blurt out what I’m thinking before I lose my nerve. “Is there enough food for three?” I ask.

  Cooper looks over at me, brows raised.

  There’s a long pause. I can almost feel my grandmother thinking. “Yes,” she says. “We can make do.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Tell the young man I’m looking forward to meeting him,” she says. I raise my eyebrows. I didn’t say who I was bringing with me. “Goodbye, Mia.” The line clicks.

  “Bye,” I say. Cooper is frowning at me. My heart starts thumping. “You don’t have to come to dinner—I mean, only if you want to.”

  “I want to. I just hoped to be a little . . .” He pauses and looks down at his paint-stained jeans and his faded blue T-shirt. “Cleaner,” he finishes.

  I want to tell him that he looks great. Better than great. Perfect. But all I say is, “You look fine.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Okay, I’ll come, but on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “No,” he says. “Just say yes.”

  “Not until I know the condition,” I say, but he just shakes his head. I sigh. “Fine. Yes.”

  Cooper smiles. He walks over and switches off the music. I follow him over to the doorway. “Simon! We’re taking off,” he yells.

  “Have fun at dinner,” Simon yells back. I swear, Simon has better ears than Fig. “Coop, watch your manners.”

  Cooper rolls his eyes. Unfortunately, for someone about to have dinner with Veronica, that is excellent advice.

  Veronica is thrown for about half a beat when she first meets Cooper. At first, I think it’s because of the way he’s dressed. I mean, neither of us is clean. But then I realize it’s his mouth. And more than that, I realize I don’t even notice it any longer.

  “How do you do?” Veronica asks, extending her hand.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Cooper says.

  “Likewise,” Veronica says. And it’s literally the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use that word without a jokey British accent. “Do come in.”

  I would hardly call what we have for dinner “making do,” as my grandmother put it. And throughout the meal Cooper is, well, perfect. His manners are far better than mine, which, much to my embarrassment, Veronica points out. Cooper makes big eyes at me when she’s in the kitchen getting him another piece of pie.

  “I love pie,” he says. I raise my eyebrow. He blots his mouth with his napkin, making me narrow my eyes at him.

  “Here you are, Cooper,” Veronica says, setting another gargantuan piece of peach pie on the table in front of him.

  “This is really amazing, Ms. Thompson,” he says. She smiles at him, making me narrow my eyes at her too. He takes a bite and places his fork back on his plate. I have to will my eyes not to roll. That is one of Veronica’s biggest issues with me. I hear her echoing in my head. Replace your utensils back on your plate between bites. Don’t hold them like some kind of Neanderthal.

  “So, Cooper, where do you go to school?”

  “Franklin Academy,” he says.

  She nods approvingly. “I understand they have an excellent art program.”

  This leads into Cooper telling her about Art Attack and her telling him about how she is training to be a docent at the MoMA. “The training is very rigorous,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the things we have to memorize.”

  Cooper nods. “I have a friend who is working there in the Restoration Department this summer. Just as an apprentice, of course.” My grandmother nods. “Maybe you know him. Sebastian Simmons?”

  Veronica nods again, and I shake my head. Somehow, in two minutes, they’ve gotten to know each other better than I know either of them. I start clearing the table while they continue to talk about past exhibits and the upcoming Masters show the MoMA is having.

  I run water over the plates before stacking them inside the dishwasher. By the time I walk back to clear the last few items, Veronica is laughing so hard she’s crying. I look questioningly at Cooper, but he just smiles at me. I take his plate—which I note is empty of pie—and his glass and finish the dishes. When I return this time, Veronica has a photo album
out and is showing Cooper photos of our house in Maine.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cooper says. He looks over at me, but I look away. She quickly flips past a picture of two little girls dressed up as ballerinas, holding hands. Me and Rachel. I didn’t even know she had any pictures of my life. I’m not ready to share all of this.

  “Listen,” I say, “I have to get up really early.” It’s true, but I know I’m being outrageously rude. Veronica gives me a look that says she knows it as well. Cooper just stares at me, surprised, making me feel like complete garbage.

  “I should go too,” he says. “Thank you for dinner, Ms. Thompson. It was delicious.”

  “You’re welcome here anytime,” she says, closing the album. She gives me a look that makes it clear my attitude is, in fact, not welcome. “Mia, why don’t you walk him to the elevator?” It’s not a request.

  I lead Cooper out of the apartment, and then wait in the hall with him for the elevator to come. We stand there, not saying anything. I try to think of something, but all I have is embarrassment and fear and a pinch of anger. Cooper apparently can’t think of anything to say either, so we remain in silence, watching the elevator move at a glacial speed from floor to floor. It stops on the second floor for a painfully long time.

  “You agreed to one condition when I said I’d come to dinner,” Cooper says.

  I frown and look at the floor. “Are you going to tell me what it is?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” Cooper says. “But soon.” The elevator doors open and he steps inside. He holds the doors open and looks at me. “You won’t ever know if the bridge will hold you unless you step out on it.”

  “Is that some sort of ancient Chinese wisdom?” I ask, confused.

  Cooper shakes his head and smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “Just something I’ve learned over the past couple of years.”

  “But what if you step out on it and the bridge breaks?” I ask.

  Cooper looks past me, as if remembering something or trying to figure something out, then he looks back at me. “I guess you have to pick a strong bridge.”

  I start to ask how you can tell if a bridge is strong, but the elevator doors start beeping, which they do when you hold them open for too long.